


One Man Army

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hc_bingo prompt; assault</p><p>this is kind of OOC for both Arthur and Eames, I apologise for that.</p><p>NOTE in 2017: I don't like this story or the depiction of violence against trans people or the word carved into Eames' skin thing, I'm gonna leave it up here for the moment but I might take it down at some point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man Army

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: fighting, fists, injury (in dream and in past), trans-phobia, 
> 
> So I started trying to write an action scene where Eames gets all beat up and Arthur has to take care of him, but it turned into this and I'm not sure how or what even is going on. Let me know what you guys think, con-crit is welcome!

#I need more time#

Eames taps his radio and asks for that to be repeated, just in case. Just, it comes over again, loud and clear. 

#I need more time, Mr Eames#

Eames gasps for breath. But, he needs more time. Eames nods and stops running, turns, leans on his knees and shuts his eyes for a moment to think. 

“Arthur?”

#here#

“Busy?”

#yup#

“Damn. How long do you need, Riku?”

#ten minutes#

“Shit.”

Eames has no more time and he can’t think of anything clever to do, so he just straightens up in time to punch the approaching projection hard enough to knock them out. 

#Eames? I’m done here, but the music’s playing#

“Alright, Arthur. I’ll manage. See you topside.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything and Eames, who really, really hates dying even in dreams, especially like this, throws himself into the fray. He has the contents of an armoury with him, but all the guns are empty because it’s Rikki’s dream and Rikki is not paying any attention to Eames. There are twenty men circling Eames, three out cold at his feet. The projections are wary, but they’re not physically attacking at the moment and Riku hasn’t mentioned anything, which means that they’ve only noticed Eames and that’s good. Eames presses a fist to his stomach and waits. 

They start coming at him one by one, which is okay. He can deal with that, he’s fought bare fisted before and he’s good, he can tap into fight-or-flight. He takes one out by the knees. Vass isn’t militarized, though she is ex-military, so the projections actually go down and most stay down. Eames takes out two before more arrive and they start coming at him in clumps, and then he’s in the middle of a heaving mass of bodies, all trying to tear him to pieces. 

He feels fists connect, what feels like teeth in his shoulder. He catches a knife and twists, hand shredding under the blade. He flips it and buries it in the chest of the man he took it from then spins, leaving four more bleeding. 

“Riku?” Eames asks, as his legs are swept from under him and a boot hits his side. 

#sorry, I’m working on it!#

Eames throws the knife to get the man standing on his chest off, stumbles up off the floor. Two projections lift him, toss his against a wall and then another holds him there. 

“Riki!”

Eames spits blood, and the projections back off slightly. He takes advantage and gets a knee into a groin, an elbow to a head. 

#few minutes, Eames. Give me a few minutes.#

Eames chokes on what feels like his own innards, headbutts someone trying to get hold of him, spins to kick feet out, elbow up, buck someone off his back, stagger into the wall to squash... elbow again, fist, foot and knee, fists… Eames is slammed against the wall again.

#we’re done#

Eames stops fighting. 

**

“That’s the last time I take a recommendation from Saito,” Eames snaps, the moment he wakes up, tugging the IV out of his wrist. 

“She’s still under,” Charlotte says.

“Bloody right she is, Saito didn’t recommend _you_ ,” Eames says. 

He crouches to wind up the PASIV, pulling Riku’s IV out with less care than is probably kind. RIku shrugs, looking sheepish, already scribbling in his notebook. 

“It was more complicated than the one we expected,” he says, far too calm for Eames’ mood. 

“I’ve worked with Arthur plenty, his research is solid. The problem is you,” he says, snapping the PASIV case shut.

Arthur’s already wiping down surfaces, so Eames finishes denuding the room of their presence, taking away all the equipment and packing it up. He shoves most of it at Riku, snatching the notebook in return.

“Hey,” Riku starts.

“I have never been woken up by having my skull smashed against a wall, repeatedly, before,” Eames says, storming out of the hospital room. 

He crashes and stomps all the way out the front, then he turns a corner and leans against the wall. He checks he’s not been followed and rubs his face, realising that his hands are shaking. He viciously jerks a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one, struggling to use the lighter, to keep it all steady. He finally gets a drag and leans back, watching the cigarette shake about in his hand, dripping ash as it burns down. 

“Eames.”

Eames looks up, unsurprised by Arthur’s presence. He holds out the cigarette to show Arthur the shakes and laughs, dropping it and stamping it out. 

“Been a while since that happened,” Eames says, voice hoarse because he hasn’t smoked in a while, either.

“Want a lift?” Arthur offers. 

They walk in silence to Arthur’s car. 

“I have a place here,” Arthur says.

“You have houses everywhere,” Eames says.

Arthur drives for half an hour, and Eames is pretty sure that they’re going aimlessly, drifting about. Arthur knows that he likes the quiet and solitude of a car, likes the controlled space. It’s not exactly a hundred percent safe and escaping in a car isn’t always easy, but sitting in Arthur’s car (Arthur doesn’t know this bit) is always safe. Eames can close his eyes and concentrate on steadying his breathing, can relax. He knows that he’s still trembling, knows Arthur can see it. But it’s just Arthur. 

“We’re here,” Arthur says, “you need anything?”

“Shower.”

Arthur shows Eames to the bathroom and leaves him to it. Eames is used to Arthur’s spaces, all over the place, all unique, but all tidy and clean and carefully designed. All minimalist, expensive, tasteful. Drab colours, good showers, soft beds. Spare clothes for Eames. Eames smiles at the soft shirt and jeans he finds outside the bathroom door when he’s finished and ducks back into the bathroom to change. 

“I’m in the kitchen!” Arthur calls, so Eames makes his way down.

Arthur’s stood at the sink, looking out of the window at the park across the street, a cat winding itself round his ankles. He’s taken off his jacket and shirt and is wearing a cashmere jumper. Eames goes to touch.

“Soft,” he says.

“You look better,” Arthur says, turning, smiling a bit.

“Feel better. My hands have stopped shaking.”

“Been a while.”

“Ever felt your skull crack against a wall?”

Arthur winces. 

“I could have stayed,” Arthur says, taking Eames hand where it’s petting awkwardly at his shoulder and placing it on his waist instead, where Eames can thumb at the jumper or get a whole handful, or pull Arthur closer. 

“Bloody Riku. Won’t be working with him again.”

“He was right,” Arthur says, mildly enough, “the safe wasn’t the one we were expecting.”

“He has no imagination,” Eames grumbles, “it wasn’t the one you were expecting, either. And I wasn’t expecting to have to cause a diversion, and we managed just fine.”

“He’ll get better.”

“No imagination.”

“Alright. Why’d you have so much trouble?”

“Because there were hundreds of them.”

“Hmm,” Arthur pulls Eames closer, because Eames settled on just thumbing, and kisses him, tangling his hands in Eames’ damp hair, “why did you have so much trouble?”

“You know when you asked if I was okay, because I made a weird noise, and I said yes?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I kind of had gotten stabbed.”

Arthur snorts and kisses him again, hand against his neck this time, warm against Eames, solid, familiar. 

“Idiot.”

“It was in the stomach, I was good for the moment.”

“I bet that hurt.”

“Mm. Bleeding out didn’t help, running didn’t help.”

“No wonder you’re pissed.”

“I’ve felt my skull crack against a wall, before,” Eames says, examining Arthur’s face for a reaction. 

Arthur just reaches out and starts getting Eames into a jumper. Eames waits for his head to pop out and for Arthur to be caught up in getting Eames’ hands out to continue. 

“Apparently coming out of a women’s bathroom is not a good idea when you’re passing as a guy. In Manchester. Three blokes laughed, thought I was drunk, deduced the truth and left me in an alley with a cracked skull, a severe concussion and broken ribs. Not something I ever wanted repeated.”

Arthur laughs, then strokes Eames’ arm in apology. 

“I was just… last time I visited the Cobbs’ Dom got drunk and started musing, you know how he does. He kept wondering how you could forge a woman so effectively. It was just entertaining for me.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Nah. Let him continue believing that you have a hoard of sisters who dressed you up.”

“My brother let me dress him up in my dresses, once. We swapped clothes, when we were little. I must have been seven, I think. My Grandmother used to give me there frothy, frilly numbers all the time.”

Arthur laughs again, tugging Eames’ jumper straighter along the hem and rearranging the collar. 

“Well, woman, man, alien from outer space, I like you rather a lot,” Arthur says, “do you want pasta for dinner?”

“Mm. I would rather…” Eames crowds Arthur against the counter and nudges and pulls and wriggles until he’s got Arthur in a comfortable position and can push his face into Arthur’s neck and wrap his arms around Arthur’s waist and then he sighs. 

“I had a look at Riki’s notes,” Arthur says, putting one hand in Eames’ jeans pocket, “I’ll collate the information and send everything to Terrif later, we should be paid by tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good. Are they working on anything interesting?”

“No, just the app Terrif wants. Honestly, we should do better jobs than this.”

“Money is money.”

“Not if it’s getting your skull shattered!”

“It was unpleasant. It’s over.”

Arthur makes a disgruntled noise, but lets it go. It’s an on-going conversation they have, whenever one of them gets hurt on the job. They switch sides regularly, argue over giving it up, laugh about going legit, mock one another for taking jobs topside (Eames) or going under too often (Arthur), fight about doing things like this for profit and getting nothing but money out of it. But, they both enjoy it too much to really give up, and the jobs where there’s a challenge without the kind of awfulness of today, the jobs where the things they steal are interesting rather than just dull apps for iphones, the jobs where the people they work with are brilliant; those jobs far outweigh the crap. And so the conversation goes on, picked up over and over but never finished. 

“I’m going to make pasta and pesto,” Arthur decides, straightening Eames out through sheer perseverance and strength, making him stand on his own, “go lie down in the living room, or sit on the counter and watch me, or something.”

Eames nods, but his heart’s not in it. He can still feel the moment of impact, the way his bones shattered, the blinding, pulsing agony of it, blood in his eyes, lipstick smeared over his face, ‘it’ carved into his arm. 

“Eames,” Arthur says, “are you alright?”

“No,” Eames says, rolling up his sleeve to show Arthur the first tattoo he ever got, “you know how this covers a scar?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, running his fingers over the slightly raised skin as he has before, curiosity bleeding through.

“They used a knife and cut it into me.”

“What did they write?”

“’it’.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know, because I couldn’t see. I could just see blood, blurring images, multiple images, everything moving and it hurt. It wasn’t long before I passed out, but I’ve never felt pain like that.”

“Eames.”

“I never have, not before then and not since. Not even in Pakistan, in the mercs, where they took us under over and over again to teach us to withstand torture. Nothing hurt the way someone trying to… to… break into my head and take away everything inside it, leaving me nothing, making me inhuman did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You need to make dinner.”

Arthur doesn’t protest. Eames sits on the counter and watches Arthur’s methodical movements, the familiar wrists and dextrous hands inducing a kind of trance. Arthur comes over now and then, peering into Eames’ face, touching. It’s reassuring. At work Arthur has such high, solid walls around himself and people don’t realise that he’s as skilled at taking them down as he is at putting them up. Arthur’s clever and cold and specific, but he’s also smart enough to accept emotion. 

“I love you,” he says, when they sit down to eat.

And then, later, again;

“I love you,” as they lie together in the dark. 

And then, fingers knitted;

“I love you, Eames.”

Eames doesn’t say it back, because his throat’s swollen shut with remembered misery. He pushes his face into Arthur’s shoulder, his familiar skin, warmth, breath, hands, and gets closer. 

“I can deal with this, you know,” Eames says, “I’m not weak.”

“You don’t have to,” Arthur says. 

And then, as Eames falls asleep;

“I love you.”


End file.
